12: Blind Man's Bluff
by Math Girl
Summary: A shipload of experimental high explosives sinks at the mouth of the Thames, and an entire city is held hostage. Alternate universe.
1. Chapter 1: Windows Upgrade

Blind Man's Bluff

_...Okay, maybe not quite so done. Still alternate universe, picking up more-or-less where the last left off. Thanks muchly, Emma, UtahBarb, I'mpekkable and Darkhelmet for the reviews and encouragement. New idea for me, this work-in-progress thing..._

1

Late one morning, Gennine found what she was looking for in the solarium. How her half-finished romance novel had come to make the rounds of nearly the _entire_ family (except Jeff and Alan, thank God) she had no idea, but she very much wanted it back.

This time, the much dog-eared green notebook was in Gordon's hands. Gennine colored clear down to her split ends, and sprang across the room, meaning to snatch the bodice-ripper out of the deeply absorbed boy's hands. Then she noticed something that drove the novel entirely out of her thoughts.

"Gordon," she said, rather worriedly, reaching across the big arm chair he'd collapsed in, to seize one of his wrists. "You need to get up and move. _Now."_

He was an Olympic athlete; a swimmer. Auburn-haired and hazel-  
eyed, Gordon had a reckless and fun lovingpersonality that had gotten him into deep trouble more than once. He usually heeded her advice, though. More often than Alan, anyway.

Glancing up from the penciled writing, he frowned slightly. He was on chapter six, she noted distractedly; the bit where Hunter carried Violetta up into the hay loft, and...

"Move?" Gordon asked, derailing Gennine's train of thought. "Why?" He'd been swimming laps since 4 AM, and had just settled down in a sun-warmed armchair with a book that was getting more interesting by the moment. He hardly felt like sitting up, much less leaving the chair. But Alan's mum tucked a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, and pointed emphatically at one of the sunroom's odd, jutting angles.

"You see that corner?" she inquired urgently.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"That's a poisoned arrow. It's pointed directly at this spot, and it channels negative energy right at this chair, and anyone who sits in it." Then, in a whispered grumble, "Whoever designed this mausoleum was a moron! Sharp corners everywhere, windows in all the wrong places, and this dreadful furniture! If only Jeff would let me hang some crystals!"

Gordon looked over at the innocent-seeming corner, then climbed to his feet with a long, tired grunt. The instant he set the green notebook down, Gennine plucked it up, clamping the red-hot reading matter safely beneath one arm. Gordon, meanwhile, had lifted the armchair off the floor and over his head, the muscles in his arms and chest standing out like they'd been chiseled.

"Right, then," he said, resignedly. "Where to?"

Gennine gasped.

"Gordon, Sweetie, put that down before you kill yourself!"

He grinned at her suddenly, all boyish mischief, his broad face halfway handsome.

"What..., this little thing?" he scoffed, actually tossing the heavy wood-and-leather seat into the air. His former step-mum gave a wordless little scream and lunged forward, ready to help catch the chair, if it proved too much for him. No need; Gordon fielded it easily, clearly showing off. He might not by the cleverest of Jeff's sons, nor the tallest or best looking, but at sixteen-and-a-half years old he was nearly as strong as Virgil, and that was saying something. Gennine was more worried than impressed, though.

_"Gordon, put it down this instant!_ You're going to herniate from your chin to your kneecaps, and I'm not cleaning up the mess!"

He laughed.

"Tell me where y' want it," he replied, good naturedly.

"Um..., okay," Gennine looked hurriedly about the room. "I haven't got my compass, or anything, but... not by the fire, Sweetie... Over here, closer to the glass wall. You can see the ocean from here, and wood and water are a good match."

To her immense relief, he walked over and obediently set down the chair, turning it a bit, as requested.

"That's better," she smiled. "Out of line of the poisoned arrow, and facing a fortunate direction for mental activities. _Now _it's all right to sit in the chair."

"But, what about the book?" He asked plaintively, pointing at the tucked-away novel. "How 'll I find out if Violet ever gives..."

Gennine blushed again.

"I don't think this is appropriate reading materialfor a boy your age, Gordon." She cut him off, in a slightly strangled voice. "Go find something healthier, like National Geographic."

He brightened up immediately.

"Yes, Ma'am," the boy responded, sauntering off with his hands in his pockets to locate the latest issue (which, he recalled, featured a long, lavishly-illustrated article on Rio De Janeiro's most popular beaches. Lovely city, Rio; the girls there never wore much). "I'm off t' improve my mind."

Across the mansion, in one of Brains' largest clean rooms, John Tracy was taking his third virtual tour of the planned space station. The cavernous lab contained a sophisticated array of holographic projectors, a 3D sound system, and chemical misters to provide him with all the appropriate sights, sounds... and smells (the space station's air was constantly filtered, but being essentially a closed system, tended to develop a certain character; not a hamster cage stink, precisely. More of a lived-in... _aroma._ You got used to it, after awhile.)

The computer-generated illusion was incredible. Had John not known better, the slow sense of rotation, the low, continuous rumble, and the seamless visuals would have fooled him into thinking himself back in orbit. She'd even gotten the lowered gravity right. On station, gravity had been provided by an ultra-dense, violently spinning mass, deep in Thunderbird 5's interior; not quite 1g, but close. Amazingly, she'd somehow managed to reproduce the buoying effect here on Earth, giving him the same slightly lengthened stride and increased lifting power he'd had in space. It felt good, bringing a slight smile to the ice blond young man's model-perfect face.

5 had manifested herself as a pale lavender, humanoid icon, nearly featureless but for two large, golden eyes. She glided silently along beside him now, in a cloud of swarming pixels and qubits. Data flowed constantly to and from her icon, causing its shape and size to flicker and morph like a dancing candle flame. John was too well accustomed to this will-o-the-wisp phenomenon to be disturbed by it, but something else _did_ trouble him. Besides being multi-lingual, he had a photographic memory, and any unannounced changes tended to stand out.

"You moved the instrument panels," he pointed out, noting about a 20 degree alteration in the placement of an inner bulkhead.

"Recent input indicates the undesirability of sharp corners," she responded promptly, anticipating his intended meaning before he'd quite finished speaking. "While this hypothesis is being tested, it is deemed safer to redesign all John Tracy work spaces to exclude negative energy channels."

"_What...?" _

John didn't know whether to laugh, or reprogram... or if she'd even allow it. 5 had gotten rather balky about letting him tinker with her basic commands, lately. Was getting downright stubborn, in general; sometimes following directions in the most annoyingly literal manner until he backed off, or changed the order. He had a feeling that soon, he would no longer be able to "program" at all, merely request, as if she were a human coworker. Five was evolving, literally before his eyes.

"If I can make a suggestion," he told her, trying a new strategy, "Not all data sources are equally reliable. Some things..., the Oxford English Dictionary, the Encyclopedia Britannica..., are unimpeachable, but I wouldn't waste my time with infomercials, daytime television, or the National Enquirer. I don't know what the hell this _"negative energy" _is supposed to be, or how you "channel" it, but I don't really think that's a legitimate concern. On the other hand," he demanded, pointing at a smoothly curving bulkhead as bare and shiny as a brass doorknob, "what happened to the windows?"

"Windows compromise the integrity of the hull, John Tracy, representing an unacceptable breach risk. Probability of hull failure calculated at .04 percent, given three windows per bulkhead, and factoring in known and conjectured stressors, applying Bernoulli's formula as follows:"

A complex stream of glowing equations appeared in the air between them. John studied them for a bit. Meanwhile, through the staggering eternity of processing time he required, his computer occupied herself by considering the outcome of such trials run in the nearest 2 million parallel universes. At length, John Tracy processed her input and responded.

"I can't argue with your math, Five, but I still need windows," he replied, facial features realigning themselves in a manner that indicated serious dissatisfaction.

"Windows are deemed unsafe, John Tracy, and safety is paramount."

"So's not going damn stir-crazy!"

5 reconsidered, opening several new processing channels and applying more memory to the problem. After the attack that had destroyed her previous housing, she'd determined to eliminate or shore up as many weak points as possible. John Tracy failed to grasp the necessity, however. Logic, to an analog life form, frequently seemed about as useful as strawberry Jell-o, to an octopus.

"Compromise," she forwarded, finding a possible solution in game theory. "It is feasible to reach a 'Nash Equilibrium' in this matter, where both may successfully 'take home the blonde from the bar'."

A diagram appeared beside her, with the players' best cooperative path highlighted through a mare's nest of possible choices, leading to a pair of smiling emoticons.

"And how often have you actually scored with a blonde at a bar?" John asked, amused.

"Approximately as often as you have," she returned.

Oh, good; more sarcasm. Right, then:

"What's the compromise?" he inquired, moving on while he still retained some dignity.

"The outer hull may be peppered with fiber optic camera ports, which will transmit an exterior image in the manner that the electrons surrounding glass molecules transfer photons. As shown:"

And, all at once, the bulkhead seemed to vanish entirely, revealing a cold and hollow, star-filled blackness, and the Earth, spinning blue-white and lovely in its precious haze of air. For all the world, is was as though John was floating in space, with nothing at all between him and the view. It quite took the breath from his body.

"Equilibrium reached?" Five prodded gently, judging from temperature, pulse and breathing changes that she'd satisfied him.

"Absolutely," John murmured, unable to tear his eyes from the heart-rending sight. "You got the blonde."


	2. Chapter 2: The Call

2

Scott strode into test lab B, scowling. He had a great deal on his mind that day, not least of which was Cindy's decision to return to her job on the mainland. Admittedly, most of the danger was past, with the Hood presumed dead, and Interpol's noose slowly tightening around the General, but there were other predators stalking the jungle, and it worried him to think of Cindy, alone and defenseless, in San Francisco. Thunderbird 5 needed to be up and running, with John at his listening post, and _soon._

Passing a long and rigorous ID scan, Scott entered the most sensitive part of the lab, where Brains designed and tested his newest technologies. It was a noisy place; thudding, hissing and clanking like an enormously amplified laundromat, with a searingly metallic, oily smell. Giant machines rose about him like sharp-edged boulders, rumbling away at nameless tasks while tiny robots zipped around, monitoring their progress.

Scott had expected to find the master of all this controlled chaos by the 3D printers, overseeing production of space station components. No such luck, though. He had to poke around for quite awhile before locating the missing engineer at the very back of the lab, on a tall, rolling step ladder.

Scott paused a moment, squinting, to watch Brains' activity. He was a courageous man, Scott Tracy, but not a stupid one, and Brains was standing beneath a glowing vortex of some sort, that began about ten feet off the ground and extended through the ceiling into seeming infinity. The phenomenon was soundless, but incredibly bright; a spiral of twisting, coruscating light from which the occasional mote detached itself to zip off through the rising funnel, and out of sight. It cast the harsh, leaping shadows of an arc-welder, without heat or noise, and something about the eerie thing raised all the hairs on the back of Scott's neck. Never a fanciful man, Scott couldn't name the reason for his unease, but couldn't rid himself of the feeling that the spiral was deeply, insanely dangerous.

As he looked on, mystified, Brains took an apple out of his lab coat pocket, scribbled on it with a permanent marker, then pitched the fruit up and sideways through the tornado of light. About five minutes later the apple reappeared from a new angle, striking Brains on the head with enough force to knock him off his ladder.

Scott dashed forward without thinking, seized hold of his stunned comrade, and hauled him away from the vortex. About a hundred yards later, with several massive printers between them and the glowing helix, Scott lowered Brains to the concrete floor.

"You okay?" he asked.

Brains nodded sheepishly, rubbing at a knot on the side of his head. They were a study in contrasts, the former fighter pilot and the engineer. Scott was tall, and well-muscled, with a strikingly handsome face, blue-violet eyes, and straight black hair. Brains was skinny, angular and twitchy, his clothing and glasses nearly always askew, his brown hair forever mussed, as lank and unkempt as a patch of weeds. He, too, had blue eyes, but they peered nervously at the world from behind a pair of spectacles much the worse for being sat on, lost and dropped. In fact, it often seemed that the lab's 3D printers churned out more replacement glasses than they did anything else.

Scott sat down on the floor beside Brains, his back against the monotonously droning printer. Jerking a thumb at the vortex, he asked,

"What the hell is that?"

"W- well, if, ah... if it functions... it's a t-time machine, Scott."

"A time machine? As in... change the past, visit the future? Or control how time... I dunno... flows?"

"T-time doesn't _'flow'_ , S- Scott," The engineer corrected fussily, stuffing an errant shirt tail back into his pants. "It j-just _is._ All points in time exist, ah... exist simultaneously, all across the m-multiverse. Wh-what I've done is t- to, ah... to use a powerful EM field to w-warp the path of a light beam into a s- spiral; a vortex. A-as it curves around, it affects the surrounding s- space and, ah... and time in a predictable manner. Or sh- should. On the other h- hand, going through may j- just land you in an, ah... an alternate universe, or kill you. I n- need to examine the, ah... the apple f- for cellular d- damage or amino acid r- reversals."

Scott shot another bleak glance at the "machine", watching as it snaked its glowing spiral path up and out, bridging eternity. A little hoarsely, he asked, "How far back will it go?"

Brains smiled a little sadly, and shook his head.

"N -not that far, Scott. A genuine t- time machine will only take you b-back as far as it h- has, ah... has itself existed. In this case, less than a month."

Scott heaved a sigh.

"It was worth asking," he said softly, once more seeing his mother, the baby in her arms, falling through the cable car window, out into a tidal wave of rushing snow and jagged rock.

"It was w- worth asking," Brains agreed, giving Scott's broad shoulder a gentle pat. Then, rising, "You, ah... you've come to ch- check the station's progress, I t- take it?"

Scott nodded silently, accepting a hand up.

"G- good timing! I'm about to, ah... to b- begin work on another c- component. This way."

Brains threaded a path amid pulsing machinery to a printer crouched like an iron sphinx, halfway across the vast manufactory.

"N -now, this time we need a section of, ah... of ring hull plating, t- twenty meters long by ten w- wide. This is the only m- machine big enough to handle the, ah... the job."

As Scott watched, Brains went to the printer's control panel, from which he accessed John's station plans. Highlighting a specific component on the menu screen, he ordered the printer to make the part, using a specially reinforced alloy of titanium steel.

The machine set to work at once, forming a mold of plasticky ceramic, then injecting the newly shaped cavity with millions of tiny metal pellets. To Scott, it sounded like a massive coin-sorting machine.

"_Once the c- cavity fills,"_ Brains shouted over the crashing, jangling din, _"The printer will heat the pellets t- to melt and temper them, then allow the part to cool. A- after that, circuitry will, ah... will be g-grown in place, like n-nerve cells. And there y-you have it! T-two days later, a new hull plate!"_

Scott nodded again, turning his head to watch a set of robotic cranes lift part of a newly printed fuel tank out of its mold. The ceramic gradually shifted back to neutral mode, readying itself for the next print. In this way, new parts were constructed for all of the Birds (and many household appliances), without having to risk a potentially dangerous outside contract.

"_How much longer till our sentinel is back on post?" _Scott yelled back, over the sudden, steamy hiss of the warming printer.

Brains gave him a proud smile.

"_U- up and online in l- less than five months, I'd, ah... I'd reckon. It's..."_

He never got to complete his shouted explanation. A sudden keening noise, shrill and wild as a madwoman, cut the engineer off in mid-sentence. An alert. The men glanced up at the flashing amber alarm light, then back at each other, and shot for the door at a dead run. Time to go to work.


	3. Chapter 3: The Mission

3

_The action starts._

The team assembled in Jeff Tracy's office within minutes of the alert, crowding around his massive teak desk for a look at the data flashing across the monitor screen. Jeff shook his grizzled head, looking grimmer than they'd ever seen him.

"I'm not sure about this one," he muttered, into the tense, waiting silence. "Technically, boys, it's more of a challenge than we've ever faced."

It seemed that a freighter transporting high explosives had floundered and gone down during one of the increasingly violent storms which had plagued the North Sea that year. _HMS vindicator _'d had time to send out one swift, desperate distress call before the dark waters between the Thames and the sea clamped a silencing hand over her mouth. A single life boat had escaped the disaster, with four half-drowned men aboard. They'd been rescued by a Royal Air Force helicopter, but there was another, more serious problem; a hold full ofdeadly explosives. Extremely powerful and terribly unstable, the munitions-grade explosives might be triggered by the slightest jar, the faintest electrical current generated between metal and saltwater. And when they blew, they'd take half of London with them. Over three million people were in immediate, dire peril, and the potential casualties from fire and injury were staggering. The King of England himself had requested their aid, for his family, and his subjects, offering to remain behind and provide whatever assistance he could. What London needed was a miracle, what she was about to get was six determined young men, and a handful of high-tech machines.

Jeff plucked at his lower lip, the lines which creased his forehead deepening to craggy furrows.

"We can help run the evacuation effort," he ventured at last, "But what kind of strategy can we put together to deal with explosives too dangerous to be approached?" Needing advice, the former astronaut looked up from his desk top. "Brains? Ideas?"

The engineer began chewing on a pencil. Much like Virgil, he thought better with something in his mouth.

"I've, ah... I've still g- got that explosive denaturing spray..."

John shifted his stance suddenly, saying something under his breath that the others didn't quite catch. Brains glanced over at him, the circuitry of his glasses automatically adjusting focus to compensate for the shifted view.

He and John had worked together a great deal, on projects ranging from the wrist comms, to Thunderbird 5. They'd finished many a late night brain-storming session asleep at their computer drafting tables, surrounded by diagrams, beer bottles and crumpled coffee cups. So, he guessed that John had a problem with his idea, but didn't like to speak out in front of the brusque, no-nonsense Jeff Tracy.

"Won't work, John?" the engineer inquired, quietly.

The younger man shook his head.

"The area's tidal," he replied, keeping his gaze on the ornate Persian rug at his feet. "Current 'll wash it all away in seconds. Some kind of quick-setting foam might work better, combined with a modified dark-energy force field. Set the stuff, insulate the ordnance, get it the hell out of there. Whatever." And then he shrugged once, his posture and expression defensive and cold. John was an impressive thinker, but he rarely opened up in front of his father.

"Foam...," Brains repeated, his unmatched technical compendium of a mind at once going to work on the formula. "Yeah... I c- could make that work! J- just need a delivery b- boy."

Gordon perked up, standing a bit straighter and giving the group a cheerful little wave.

"That's me," he said with a smile, "Fifteen minutes or less, guaranteed."

Jeff looked from his second-youngest son to Hackenbacker, who gave him a helpless shrug. There really wasn't a better choice. Young as Gordon was, and careless as he sometimes seemed, he was the team's best diver and aquanaut. Still...

"I wish there was another way," Jeff sighed. "The denaturing foam and dark energy field seem workable enough, but unless I miss my guess, Thunderbird 4 won't be able to get within 100 yards of that wreck without setting it off."

Gordon, still straining at the leash, spoke up again.

"So, I'll stop her at 150 meters, and dive th' rest. I _got _this. Really."

"No way!" Alan cut in, grimacing expressively. Though two years separated them, he and Gordon were close friends, rarely apart in adventure, mischief or trouble. "I'm _definitely_ going, then! You'll sure as heck screw something up, if _I'm_ not there to..."

The baby-faced blond would have gone on (and on), but Scott waved him aside.

"I'll go with Gordon, Dad," he told his worried father. "I'm a fair diver, and I can operate 4, in a pinch." The unstated reason, _'And I promise to keep him safe', _was in Scott's eyes and voice, rather than his words.

Jeff nodded, relieved.

"Right. It's a go, then. John, you'll take Thunderbird 1, Mobile Control, and Alan. Scott and Gordon will suit up to dive the wreck, deploying Brains' equipment to neutralize the threat of explosion. Virgil, you and Brains are on transport and evacuation detail, from Thunderbird 2."

"Yes, Father," The big cargo pilot replied serenely, already calculating his flight plan. _A 'great circle' path from the island to London would head north, crossing the western States and part of Canada, clipping the south end of Greenland, and covering 9,567.26 miles..._

Jeff turned away, smiling a little, despite his worry. Virgil was the spirit and image of his grandfather when plotting out a flight, down to the faraway look in his brown eyes, and the way he rubbed his hands together. Addressing the group's only girl, he gave a new set of orders.

"TinTin, I'll need a minute-to-minute report on the local weather and sea conditions, streamed to Mobile Control as well as Thunderbird 2. Keep an ear out for anything suspicious in the way of communications, as well. A rescue this public would be the ideal time for someone to try for a picture, or video. We need to spot and stop them before they get the chance."

TinTin nodded silently, looking somewhat depressed. She'd hoped to be included in the heavy lifting, now that Alan had become 'official'. But, no; it seemed that she was still regarded as too young, or maybe just too _female_, to be sent along on a mission. But Mr. Tracy was speaking again. Doing her best to conceal her disappointment, the girl focused on his words.

"_I'll_ coordinate the rescue effort from base, and set up a liaison to deal with the Royal Family, and local authorities." With gathering confidence, he added, "Brains, I need that equipment ready to go within the hour. Understood?"

"Y- yes, Sir, Mr. Tracy. I'm, ah... I'm on it. J- John, I'll need you, and Scott and, ah... and Gordon, with me."

Jeff had risen to his feet, a tall, commanding presence; grey-haired and proud.

"Boys, we've got one chance at this. A single wrong move could detonate the explosives and incinerate half of London. There is simply..._no...margin...for...error._ Together, perfect, the first time, or not at all. Now, go to it, and Godspeed!"


	4. Chapter 4: Gadgetry

4

Brains had subconsciously avoided the main lab, the spot where TinTin, possessed by the will of her twisted uncle, had attempted to kill John. Instead, he led the five brothers (Virgil and Alan had tagged along, as well) to his 'tool room', a beat-up chamber full of scuffed work benches and disassembled lab gear.

Speaking into his PDA, the engineer ordered a few quick changes to the hulls and programming of Thunderbirds 1, 2 and 4. Then, he briefed John and Scott, explaining what he'd done, and comparing notes on the evacuation problem.

John (slouching with his back against the wall, arms folded across his chest, left leg bent up and back to brace himself) listened to Hackenbacker's spiel for about two minutes before shaking his lowered head.

"Three million people! Ike, there's no goddam way to evacuate _that_ many civilians from a city as densely populated as London. Not in time to do any good. Unless..., staging areas." John straightened up, his bleak expression slowly clearing. "We'll need to coordinate movement, maybe block by block, to six or seven easy-to-get-to staging areas, and have the RAF, the US Air Force, and anyone else who wants to lend a hand, pick them up from there. Question is, where's the best place for... _Damn_. I need a map."

Brains complied at once, fishing out of his research stacks a touch sensitive, electronic-paper chart of London. Then he turned his attention to the others, satisfied that John had the matter in hand.

"S-Scott, Gordon: Judging from Thunderbird 5's satellite images of th- the wreck, she's settled to the bottom a- almost upright, with her h- hatch covers ripped off, and a section of, ah... of hull plating peeled back. Rogue wave d- damage, probably, and a real, ah... real miracle that the 'cargo' didn't t- touch off right away. As John s- said, there's a strong t- tidal current to contend with, s- sweeping over and, ah... and through the wreck. It w- won't be long before s- something works loose and, ah... and triggers a b- blast."

Scott ran a hand over his bristling black hair and onto the back of his neck, which was knotted tight with pre-flight tension.

"Right. So, what do we do, Brains?"

"Th- the foam's being p- produced as we, ah... we speak, Scott. I've worked it out t- to expand a hundred-fold, and harden w- within 10 seconds of application, s- so don't get any of it on you, or you'll be b- buried alive and suffocated before, ah... before anyone can c- cut a way through. It's m- mildly neurotoxic, too. Harmless in the t- tank, though." (Like that was much comfort.)

"It'll be l- loaded onto a modified water sled, s- so you don't have to, ah... to wrestle with the tank, j- just guide the sled. I've included a long hose. Th- that way, the sleds won't accidentally t- trigger anything b- by coming too close. And if, ah... if all else fails, the dark energy generator should absorb a g- good part of the blast."

"Sounds like a plan," Scott replied, relaxing just a bit. Between John and Brains, the theorist and the mechanic, almost any scenario could be met, and overcome.

"Th- there's more," the engineer continued, seriously. "With the, ah... the recent storms, the t- tides, and the wreck itself, the w- water down there is turbid as h- hell. Visibility is j- just about nil. So, I've g- got these, for you and G- Gordon."

Hackenbacker scooped up what looked like a pair of girdles, and held them up for inspection.

"I c- could describe how th- they work, b- but the best way to learn is j- just to, ah... to try them."

They did so; Scott first, Gordon hanging back just a bit. Objectively, the boy knew that Brains was a friend, who not only meant no harm, but was actively trying to help. Emotionally, though... He'd had recent bad experience of doctors, or men who'd represented themselves as such, and he had to keep reminding himself that Hackenbacker was different, that he hadn't been involved.

Eventually, Gordon was persuaded to try the thing on, strapping it about his waist, under the tee-shirt, with a small sensory attachment clipped to his left shoulder. After he'd got himself set up, Brains turned out the lights, and an interesting thing happened. Every time he moved, the girdle hammered a little map of the surrounding surfaces onto his back. The information, after a moment of confused blundering, was processed by his visual cortex, allowing Gordon to 'see'.

"This is ace," he announced, turning completely around to watch the shifting, black and white landscape ripple and fade in his mind's eye. Somehow, amazingly, his sense of touch had been co-opted to provide him with ersatz vision. "Will it work underwater?"

"Ought to," the engineer replied, adjusting his glasses for night vision. "N- never been tested. It's modified, ah... modified fighter p- pilot gear."

...Which explained why Scott was less amazed, having detected many a streaking surface-to-air missile through the tactile radar map his instruments traced upon his skin.

Less than fifteen minutes later, while Brains' gadgetry was being packed and loaded, and Thunderbirds 1 and 2 readied for launch, Alan gave his best friend an affectionate punch on the shoulder.

"Good luck baby-sitting 'Anal-Retentive Man'," he said, grinning wickedly. Then, with a dramatic eye-roll, "I lucked out and got 'Captain Warmth and Personality'."

"Yeah, and he's right behind you, too." Gordon replied.

"_Huh?"_ Alan pivoted wildly, eyes like manhole covers, only to find that the space behind him was innocent of avenging Johns. He turned back, snapping,

"Not funny, dude!"

"_I'm _laughing."

"That's cause you're an idiot!"

They shoved each other, Gordon falling back a step to regain his balance, Alan careening into a nearby wall.

"Seriously, man," Alan said, after accepting his brother's hand up, "Take care. _'The Replacements'_, right?"

"Right." Gordon responded with a warm smile, beginning their favorite quote from the old 2D sports movie. "Pain heals...,"

"Chicks dig scars...," Alan put in.

"...And glory is forever." Gordon finished up.

They tapped fists on it, and then there was no more time for good-byes.


	5. Chapter 5: Getting There

5

Scott strode across the hangar boarding ramp and into Thunderbird 2's rear crew cabin, Cindy's warm caress still tingling on his skin and in his memory.

"Come back safe. _I mean it!_" She'd said, trying for tough, but mostly sounding worried.

"I will," he'd replied, as best he could around a flurry of urgent kisses. "Don't leave till I get back; I'll fly you to the city, myself."

"Okay," she'd smiled, and then they'd pulled apart, holding hands and backing away from each other until she was far out of reach.

Out of sorts and distracted, Scott went forward, entering the cockpit, only to find Gordon already strapped into the co-pilot's seat. The boy turned his head a bit at some small, frustrated noise Scott made. Spotting his older brother, he unbuckled and began to rise, saying,

"I'm sorry, Scott. I forgot you were...,"

"Forget it," his brother replied, waving him back down. "It's okay, Gordon. Really. You're the usual co-pilot. I'm just a passenger on this one."

Which bothered him more than he cared to admit. Giving Virgil a quick slap on the shoulder for luck, Scott strapped himself into a rear seat, tensing just a bit as the pitch of 2's engines rose from whine, to scream, to ground-shaking roar. Not that the noise troubled him, or the vibration, either. He just hated not being at the stick.

"Should have brought a book, or something," Scott sighed to himself, as the giant cargo lifter began rumbling slowly forward. Craning his neck, Scott watched through the windscreen as the hangar door dropped open, and Thunderbird 2's great, blunt nose pushed out into the brilliant tropical sunshine. The hinged palm trees fell away on either side of 2's short runway, making room for her stubby, forward-swept wings.

"Pardon me, Sir," he heard Gordon announce, sounding for all the world like a snappish flight attendant, "but the captain's turned on the _'no smoking'_ sign, so..."

"I _am _the captain," Virgil replied, as 2 came to a jolting halt over the launch ramp. A series of booming metallic clangs came next; huge chocks locking into place behind the cargo lifter's massive, 20-foot tires.

Now the launch ramp began to tilt, raising Thunderbird 2's nose until she sat at a 45 degree angle to the horizontal, ready to gather herself, and take to the sky.

Up in the cockpit, Virgil must have throttled forward, for the engines came fully awake, hurling great jets of nuclear fire against the ramp's blast shields. Scott's hands twitched a bit, as he mentally completed each step of the launch sequence right along with his brother.

Thunderbird 2 seemed almost to tense, then spring, catapulting up and off the launch ramp like a missile. Scott was ground backward against his seat, grunting and straining for each breath, as the force of 2's acceleration closed on him like a giant fist. Virgil, he thought blurrily, had to be pulling at least 7 'g's, maybe more. Gradually, the pressure eased, as Thunderbird 2 leveled out and banked off north. Not having anything better to do, Scott unstrapped and went forward, spending the remainder of the flight helping Gordon memorize the _Vindicator _'s interior layout. They wouldn't be able to bring a map, where they were going.

Further along, and much higher up, John cursed quietly as he fought to keep Thunderbird 1 level. In horizontal flight, she wanted to shimmy and buck like a sheet on a clothesline. The nose must have lifted fifty times, nearly triggering more stalls than he cared to count. Yet, Scott made it look so _easy...!_

The sometime astronaut and occasional author waited a bit to call in, his full concentration being occupied just then, keeping that silver pig in the sky. Finally, though, he hit the comm to his brothers.

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 1; off the ground, yet?"

Virgil came back with,

"Up and away, and under cover, Thunderbird 1. We're seven and one half minutes behind you, headed north-by-northeast on compass bearing 30 degrees, 27 minutes, 17 seconds..." And so on, to a hair-splitting degree that would have left most pilots cross-eyed and speechless.

"Right. I'll call ahead, keep the RAF posted on your approach. Fly safe."

Virgil smiled, visualizing John's fight with the stubborn rocket plane from his savagely grunted comments.

"You, too, John. See you in London."

"Yeah. Later."

Skittish as a nursing mare she might be, but Thunderbird 1 was also _fast._ The earth had flashed by not much quicker than this in orbit. John reached England in less than twenty minutes, finally getting the hang of flying Scott's Bird just about the time he dropped from Shadowbot's radar cover, and called in to London Heathrow.

Following instructions, he brought Thunderbird 1 down just south of the Thames, in a space that had been cleared for the re-creation of Vauxhall Gardens.

The sun had not yet risen, and Thunderbird 1split the chill, foggy night wide open; a lightning bolt with shrieking engines and flashing lights. Not that there wasn't activity aplenty. Hundreds of helicopters stitched their way across the sky from one staging area to the next, setting up for the waves of evacuees that would soon be airlifted to safety on the continent, and Ireland.

Before leaving his craft, John fetched Alan and the Mobile Control gear, then triggered Brains' latest security advance. With the flip of a switch, he cut on a webwork of micro-circuitry implanted in the Bird's hull.

All at once, light waves were seized in a powerful warping field, and bent _around _the craft rather than reflecting _off_ it. Light from behind, beneath, and above was brought around to the viewer's eye, or camera lens, effectively rendering Thunderbird 1 invisible. People all over the staging area did puzzled double-takes as the great, sleek craft simply vanished before their eyes, leaving behind only a slightly distorted fuzziness. What they'd think when they saw two figures climb down out of apparent nothingness, John had no idea.

He unstrapped to rise, and got his sash caught on one of the safety buckles. John wasn't much accustomed to wearing an IR uniform, using holographic projections in the space station, and he found it particularly bothersome, now. When he de-planed with Alan a few moments later, it was with his sleeves rolled up, collar loosened, and _without_ the damn sash.

They were met almost immediately, by the King..., and one other.


	6. Chapter 6: Breaking Point

6

_Many thanks to Emma for His Majesty's name, and to Orangutangal for the pointer on "The City". Consider it noted, and adjusted!_

Virgil reached the wreck site a few minutes later, braking Thunderbird 2's airspeed with skillfully applied steering rockets and impellers. As her altimeter fell, a glance outside revealed the lights of the British coast glowing faintly through a dense, oozing fog. Turning his head a bit, the husky pilot said to his brothers,

" 'Bout that time, Guys. Ready to go?"

Scott and Gordon unstrapped and rose, Scott calm and assured, Gordon with a few dozen loose butterflies performing maneuvers in his stomach. Sheffield, where Royce's family lived, was only 134 miles away... near enough to be in danger, maybe. Rosie and Mrs. Fellows would be sitting up by the telly, probably, waiting for news, or another call.

So far (that he clearly recalled, anyway), Gordon had exactly one and a half rescues to his credit. So far, so good. Only, this time, he was going in to do a job everyone considered him an expert at; underwater rescue and retrieval, with stakes high enough to be terrifying. He was very glad, indeed, that Scott had opted to come with him. Silently praying that he didn't screw up, Gordon gave Virgil a quick wave, then led the way down into the pod, and Thunderbird 4.

_London:_

Arthur Denis William Robert Phillip Hanover, right-wise King of pretty nearly everything he surveyed, turned out to be a lean and fit man of about 37, with light brown hair receding a bit at the forehead, and bright blue eyes. He was just under average height, with a nose too big for his face, and a warm, genuine smile.The cool, lovely blonde at his side, on the other hand, looked every inch the frosty aristocrat.

"Your Majesty," Penelope began, in her most formally elegant voice, "may I present...?"

"John," he replied, very quietly. "And Alan."

Penelope gave him a small, icy smile.

"Alan, and... _John..._, was it? Agents of International Rescue, I believe." Then, "Gentlemen: His Highness, King Denis, of..."

The King cut her off with a little head shake.

"There is a time and place for court etiquette, Lady Creighton-Ward, and a time for action. If you please, I will speak for myself."

She bowed her head just a bit, and stepped back to join the waiting military and security types, pointedly not looking at John.

Said the King, extending his hand,

"Gentlemen, I thank you for responding to the need so swiftly. Every resource we have to offer is at your disposal, for the duration of this crisis. What must we do?"

Shaking the proffered hand, John replied,

"Thank you, Sir. With your permission, we'll set up Mobile Control a little closer to the river. I and... your liaison... can coordinate the evacuation of the city from this console, and oversee the explosive disposal. The best help you could give us personally would be to get on television and encourage the people not to panic."

The King's chin lifted slightly.

"Young man," he said, "we are British. There will be no panic. London and the surrounding regions will be evacuated in an orderly and civilized manner; and when the last of my subjects climbs onto his transport, it is I who shall shut the door and send him to safety. Now; let us begin to..., as your president so charmingly puts it, 'make this thing happen'."

John, liking His Royal Majesty more every minute, had to smile.

"Yes, Sir."

_Thunderbird 4:_

Scott wedged himself into a bulkhead pull-down seat, finding it rather a tight squeeze. He and Gordon had donned wet suits, tactile girdles and dive belts, and were just about set to go.

Virgil called over the comm,

"We're down below 60 feet. Ready, Kiddo?"

Scott could hear the smile in Gordon's voice as he responded,

"Fire one, Sir; aye!"

"Right. Here goes."

At the last instant, just before what felt like the most harrowing theme-park ride in creation, Gordon looked over his shoulder and shouted,

"Scott..., _brace!"_

They plummeted, stone-like, and hit the water with a thundering _WHUMP!_ Warned too late, Scott was unprepared for the shock of collision. He felt something wrench itself into a fiery, twisted knot, all along the left side of his back. All of a sudden, he could hardly move; every breath was a major, hissing effort.

The deck pitched and rolled beneath them, as the pod thrashed around in the waves like a dying giant. Scott clenched his teeth against a pain that seemed to start in the back of his neck, and end somewhere on the sea bed.

Gordon was far too busy to notice his brother's condition. Working as fast as he could, the young aquanaut triggered Thunderbird 4's launch sequence. The pod door dropped majestically away before them, opening onto choppy, fog-drenched water. A tracked slipway along the inside of the broad door provided their road, all the invitation Gordon needed to leave the heaving pod.

Hitting 4's rear thrusters, Gordon sent them speeding along the track, and into the brackish water. This second collision, followed by a rapid, steep-angle dive, caused Scott to clutch at his arm rests like he was dangling above a hundred-story drop. His anguished grunt must have been audible, because Gordon looked around again.

"Scott? You all right?"

"Never better," the older man grated out, through tightly clenched teeth. At last they leveled out, then came to a stop, hovering about thirty feet above the murky sea floor.

"You sure?" Gordon persisted. "Because I could..."

"_Fine. _I'm fine. Let's just... _unhh!_... get this show on the road." And he somehow managed to get the seat straps off, then rise to his feet. Pain or no pain, he wasn't sending Gordon out to face a ship load of sensitive munitions, alone.

Gordon wasn't convinced, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Scott, he noticed, was moving like a hundred-year-old man, his left shoulder slightly hunched, the left arm pulled tight across his torso.

Wordlessly, Gordon got up, fetching their dive equipment out of a bulkhead locker. Though he didn't make a big deal about it, the boy did his best to help his brother don the cutting tools, mask and rebreather. He held onto both sets of fins, though, deciding that Scott had thrown his back out, somehow, and was too proud to admit it. In any case, the injured pilot was going to have as much as he could do to step down into the lower airlock, much less carry equipment. Hopefully, Scott would do better out in the water, where most of the weight would be off his back muscles.

Keeping a concerned eye on his white-faced older brother, Gordon dogged open the first hatch, climbing down a short ladder into the airlock. Once inside, he reached a hand up to steady Scott's descent. Somehow, his brother made it down the ladder, breathing in short, hard gasps, and taking one slow rung at a time.

"Scott, are y' sure you...?"

"Gordon, I'm fine. Drop it. We've got a job to do."

"Right. Sorry."

He swarmed halfway up the ladder again, shut and sealed the upper hatch. Then, signaling Scott to put on his mask, he pressed the 'airlock flood' button. Water, cold and dark and hungry, came hissing up around their legs, lifting the two Tracy brothers entirely off the slatted deck. When the process was complete, Gordon spoke again, his voice thin and reedy over the mask comm.

"Test one: Scott, you hearing me?"

"Loud and clear, Gordon. Remember..., we get within 300 yards of that wreck, and there's no more talking; radio signal at the wrong time could light the biggest damn candle since World War II."

"F.A.B., Scott. I'll be silent as the grave, my word on it. Here, take a writing board, put your fins on, and I'll open the second hatch."

He did as he'd said, releasing the two of them to exit Thunderbird 4's cramped little airlock. A touch to their buoyancy control vests released a bit of air, making them heavy enough to sink through the hatch, and out into stygian darkness. In the faint glimmer of 4's running lights, Gordon got a swift impression of limestone outcrops and stringy grey muck. If there were any fish, they were being shy. Definitely a strong current from the river, though; it hummed around Thunderbird 4 like a gale.

The sleds and foam tanks were in a small hold at the aft of the boxy little sub. Leaving Scott to rest in the lee of the Water Bird, Gordon darted off to fetch the equipment.


	7. Chapter 7: In the Dark

A bit of awkwardness, and trouble at sea.

Many thanks to Barb from Utah (and daughter!), Opal Girl, Tikatu and Orangutangal for their kind comments.

7

_Tracy Island:_

Just a little hesitantly, Gennine pushed open the double doors, and entered her former husband's grandly furnished office. TinTin was seated at a console by the far wall, interpreting a long stream of ever-changing data, and occasionally typing at a portable keyboard. Jeff was at his desk.

Adjusting her hair band, Gennine squared her slim shoulders and walked on in.

"Jeff...?" She began, when he didn't immediately react to her presence. He looked up from his comm screen, frowning. Clearly, the distraction was unwelcome.

Gennine cleared her throat, focusing on maintaining her positive energy flow. Couldn't quite bring herself to smile, though.

"Gennie, I'm busy," he snapped. "Another time, please."

She shook her head, saying,

"If you don't mind, Jeff..., I'll be very quiet. But, our s... I mean, my... Alan and Gordon! They're out there, and... and I'd like to listen in."

He leaned away from the desk a bit, the big leather chair creaking beneath him. Then,

"Very well. Pull up a chair, Gennie, but stay quiet and let the boys and I do our jobs."

Nodding, Gennine went over to the fireplace and found a chair that didn't look too heavy. As she wrestled it over toward Jeff, who once again had his head down over the comm screen, she couldn't help thinking of Gordon showing off with the arm chair, and of Alan; defiant, disrespectful and immature, but still her son, and precious beyond words.

Biting her lip, she wondered how Jeff could stand to sit back at his desk, half a world away, and let his sons place themselves between certain death and its terrified victims. Despite everything Victoria Tracy had said, she would never, did a thousand years go by, _ever _understand. All she could do was wring her hands and wait.

_London:_

The evacuation was underway. Starting from the outermost regions of the city (those with the most realistic chance of getting to safety), and proceeding toward the point of highest danger, Londoners pulled together under the directives of their monarch, and queued up for the transports. By themselves, the bobbies and Armed Forces might have been overwhelmed, but there were veterans aplenty stepping up to the pitch, as well as shaven-headed soccer thugs with "F— WorldGov" tattooed on their scalps. Everyone did their bit.

The atmosphere between John and Penelope, on the other hand, was considerably less agreeable.

"Happy to see me?" She'd inquired ironically, her voice a barbed whisper.

"That depends," he'd responded quietly, eyes on his data screen. "Are you here as a teammate, or a woman?"

A faint, bitter smile touched her shapely mouth.

"The former, Dear, as you seem quite unable to deal with the latter."

Jaw muscles standing out, still not looking at her, he said,

"Penny, I..."

"_Lady _Penelope, if you please."

He split the comm screen, displaying an image of Scott and Gordon's progress toward the wreck, as well as that of the on-going evacuation. The fog was beginning to clear, he noted, lifted by a breeze from the sea. Before long, the sun would be up.

"Right. Lady Penelope. I've enjoyed being with you. It's been... very pleasant."

She assumed a composed, professional expression when a pair of heli-jet pilots strode by, then returned like a striking snake to the matter at hand, burying poisoned fangs in herself, and in him.

"But not love. It's never been love, with you, has it?"

John honestly didn't know what to say. She couldn't have chosen a worse time or place to attack him about what sort of relationship, if any, they actually had. There _was_ something.., he simply couldn't put a name to it. Not under pressure, anyway. Then, a distraction arrived in the form of Alan.

"Hey!" He called brightly, jogging up from the direction of the royal entourage. "Did you know there's an actual, honest-to-gosh _princess_ here? Her name's 'Alais', or something, and she's _hot."_

Alan wasn't the most observant of people, but a cement block could've sensed the electric tension between his brother and the lovely British operative. Alan paused, open-mouthed, looking from John to Penny, and back again.

"Whoa!" He gasped. "You guys are, like, _together,_ aren't you? That is SO wild! What d'you do, rub noses like the Eskimos? 'Cause I can't picture either of you warming up enough to..."

John got suddenly to his feet, pivoting to stare at his youngest brother.

"Alan. Shut up, and go away. _Now."_

"Right, fine, sure...! This is me, shutting up... _And leaving!"_

For, something about the look in John's eyes had threatened the beat-down of his short life. Once out of easy reach, he called out teasingly, "Now, kiss and make up, you two! Even icicles gotta have a love life!" Then he darted off again, snickering at his own joke.

"I am acquainted with a number of discreet and highly qualified assassins," Penelope said at last, in a laudably even tone.

"Thanks," John replied, unbending enough to smile a little. "I may just take you up on that."

_At sea:_

The foam tanks were slung beneath the water sleds, with their long hoses at the front, coiled fire-truck fashion. The dark energy generator was aboard Thunderbird 2, still hovering overhead. Brains would deploy the force field, but only if absolutely necessary, for it mightn't absorb all of the blast, and was likely to wind up trapping Scott and Gordon, as well as the explosion.

Driving a water sled was a matter of clinging to the steering handles and letting the thing pull you through the sea. It felt sluggish to Gordon, and difficult to steer, probably because the foam tank marred the sled's hydrodynamics. Scott slid through the water beside him, driving a sled of his own. Thunderbird 4's lights had long since faded in the murky distance, but the tactile girdle had cut in, turning his brother into a flickering, monochrome shadow at the edge of Gordon's enhanced 'vision'. The wreck he located using a sort of mental "dead reckoning", with his dive watch, and a memorized plot of its position.

At their nearest safe operating distance from _Vindicator_, the brothers cut off the sleds, anchoring them to the limestone sea bed with tethers. Gordon unfastened the security clip on his hose, then began swimming for the wreck, unreeling meter after meter of flattened, carbon-polymer tubing behind him. About five minutes into this, he realized that he'd lost Scott.


	8. Chapter 8: Vindicator

8

Gordon doubled back at once, retracing over half the distance to the sleds before he located Scott. His brother was toiling along, dragging the second hose, just a few feet above the sea bottom. He moved slowly, in fits and starts, battered this way and that by the mischievous current.

Relieved, Gordon started toward him, dropping his own hose to reach his struggling brother a bit sooner. He couldn't see his face, of course; the girdle's sensor was quite unable to penetrate the reinforced glass of Scott's mask, and presented to his 'view' nothing but a smooth, curving white surface. A brief handclasp communicated his brother's feelings well enough, though.

Pulling out his board, Gordon took a grease pencil and a tiny, water-proof torch, and wrote a message:

_Tkng U bk to slds/ Gng on myslf _/ Wt thr

Scott examined the hastily penciled words, then emphatically shook his head... and suffered a sudden, agonizing spasm as the motion injured his back muscles further. Accepting no more protest, Gordon put away the writing things, took hold of his older brother, and towed him back to where the water sleds bobbed and swayed on their tethers like reeds in a stiff breeze.

One more quick communication:

_Sty hr/ Got ths/ B bk sn_

...and then Gordon was off to the wreck, again, hoping that he really _could _handle the job himself.

_London:_

His Royal Majesty had received a brief, murmured update from one of his dark-suited retainers. Leaving the broadcasting center, he and his strawberry–blonde eldest child (Her Serene Highness, Princess Alais Alexandra Elizabeth Dianne Hanover) crossed the few yards to Mobile Control at a rapid walk.

"John," the King called out.

The younger man got to his feet and turned to face the approaching royals.

"Sir?"

"It appears that we've a acquired a would-be blackmailer. A person, or persons, unknown has posted a threat to detonate the submerged explosives remotely, unless two-hundred-fifty million Euros are deposited in a numbered Swiss bank account by 5 AM, Greenwich Mean Time. The call seems to have originated from a mobile phone, somewhere on the Autobahn. Our security forces are inclined to take the matter seriously, and certainly there would be little difficulty in broadcasting a signal that would penetrate to the shipwreck; unfortunately..., _before_ we could do much at all to stop it. Have you any suggestions?"

John Tracy glanced over at Penelope, whose arched brows and slight nod indicated that Parker and his underworld cronies would be on the job in a matter of minutes. Casually reaching into her handbag, the young noblewoman withdrew a compact, and began touching up the non-existent sheen on her nose. No one there but John and Alanrealized just how special an item that compact really was, and who she was using it to speak with. Turning to regard King Denis,John said,

"Consider it handled, Sir."

Not long afterward, in an incident never officially connected with events in Britain, a black BMW sedan suffered a sudden tire blow-out while speeding down the German freeway. Losing control of his vehicle, the driver careened off the road and over a high cliff. All three men in the BMW were killed in the resulting explosion and fire, which (after a brief investigation) were declared accidental, and soon forgotten. After that, there were no more threats, or attempts at black mail.

_Vindicator:_

She'd been beautiful. That much, Gordon could see, even with just a tactile map to go by. An aluminum trimaran Seacoaster, about 31 meters in length and close to 10 in the beam, she'd been slender and elegant, a high-speed container ship capable of zipping 3700 tonnes of cargo across the North Sea at over 45 knots.

The storm that killed her had ripped through two of her three hulls and sheared in half the enormous bolts that held her hatch covers in place, leaving the poor lass to sink to the bottom, alone and broken in a shallow grave.

Briefly, he was reminded of another boat... a submarine? But that one had been different; deeper water, he thought... and a living crew. _Vindicator _held only ghosts now. It was her cargo he was there to deal with.

Taking a firmer grip on the hose nozzle, Gordon quickly crossed himself and went in, entering through the torn hull. With his memorized diagram to back up the tactile map, the young aquanaut picked a careful path through the drowned ship, avoiding sharp edges that might tear the hose, or snag his gear. He was very slow, very cautious; drifting about with just an occasional flick of his fins. Diving a wreck alone was disorienting and dangerous, something he could have had his license revoked for. But that wasn't the worst of it.

What got to him was the dead men. Sprawled against the bulkheads, or clinging to ladder rails, they gave silent testament to the speed with which _Vindicator_ had gone down. Gordon slipped quietly past them, relieved that there wasn't light enough to see their faces, or read their names. He kept count, though, meaning to light a few candles, next time he went to Mass.

Finally, he reached the main hold. It was filled nearly to capacity with giant shipping crates, strapped down so firmly that not one had shifted so much as a centimeter. From Gordon's angle, floating just within the upper hatch, the hold seemed cavernous, fading off in shades of flickering grey as far as the sensor could detect.

Thinking, _'Hope Brains packed enough foam to do the job,' _Gordon raised the hose nozzle, and made ready to declaw 3000 tonnes of slumbering munitions.


	9. Chapter 9: Inferno

9

_London:_

He'd allowed himself to become distracted. First the extortion threat had claimed his attention, then a squadron of heli-jets wandered too near to Thunderbird 2, and had to be ordered off. Worse yet, a long, vicious comm-argument took place between the shipping company, and explosives manufacturer, about whose fault this all was.

The local shipping rep kept demanding assurances that they'd not be held liable for damages to people and property, while the munitions firm maintained that_ they_ were certainly not to blame if their product performed as advertised; _especially _after its impulse-absorbent packing material was allowed to become waterlogged and useless.

Tired of the bickering, John simply switched them both off, turning his attention to the other part of the screen, just in time to spot serious trouble.

Brows drawing together, he leaned over and hit a few keys, murmuring,

"That's not good...,"

Someone appeared to be floating near the water sleds. Alone. The vehicles' on-board security systems were reporting an unexplained presence, but whose, John couldn't be sure without scanning the area. Concerned, he rubbed at the back of his neck. Who was out there? Scott or Gordon, maybe... But they would surely know better than to separate in the middle of a dangerous mission.

Not one of his brothers, then. A saboteur, or someone out to steal IR technology under the blanketing darkness and chaos. Question was, what to do about it? How could he fix things so that the escaping thief attracted immediate police attention?

Thinking furiously, John came up with a quick and dirty solution. The mysterious lurker had to have an ID chip; everyone did. He could write a virus, then have 5 flash it down through the nearest comm satellite on a micro-tight beam, corrupting the chip and labeling the guy a dangerous escaped mental patient, or (better yet) a disease vector. Worth a try, anyway.

"Alan!" He called, already typing lines of code.

"Yeah...?" His young brother came over, rather warily. He'd been serving as a go-between, relaying messages for the King (but mostly chatting up the princess, and staying out of John's way).

"Keep an eye on the monitors, for me," John ordered, without looking up. "I'm going to be busy for a few minutes."

_Open water:_

Several years before, Scott Tracy had ejected from his fighter after losing an engine and part of the tail assembly to a shoulder-fired missile. He'd ended up in hostile territory, crashing through the branches of an enormous fir tree, and tumbling down a steep, rocky hillside. With three broken ribs and a badly pulled neck muscle, he'd cut loose the parachute and headed for cover.

...And if injuries like that hadn't stopped him in Kazakhstan, a twisted back wasn't stopping him now, not when his brother was working alone in a hazardous shipwreck. Gritting his teeth, Scott pushed away from his water sled, and began swimming for the danger zone, following the hose like a roadmap.

_Vindicator:_

It was his own damn fault. Just about to begin spraying the neutralizer, Gordon spotted something floating in the hold. Another body; softer-edged grey against the hard, flat, whiteness of the stacked shipping crates.

It shouldn't have mattered, but for some reason it bothered Gordon terribly that the dead man was going to end up entombed in hardened foam, forever out of reach of grieving family and friends. He couldn't simply leave him there.

No big deal, Gordon reassured himself. He didn't have to _touch_ the corpse, just grab hold of a sleeve, or something, haul him out through the hatch, _then_ begin spraying. Simple.

Lighting up his pressure gauge for a quick glance at remaining air, Gordon draped the hose over a handy bracket, then set himself in motion toward the drowned sailor. Took a couple of attempts, actually, before he scraped up the nerve to seize hold, but he finally managed. Not as scarey as he'd expected, or as physically heavy. It was another kind of weight.

He turned in place, a slow, graceful barrel roll, then flicked a fin to head back to the open hatch. That's when he saw the broken bolt. Something... the gusting current, a curious fish, or just plain bad luck... tipped the bolt off of its resting place. He saw, in shades of grey-white sensor touch, its jaggedly snapped shaft, and rapid, twisting descent. It was going to strike a crate.

And Gordon _moved_. Still clinging to the dead man, he launched himself toward the abandoned hose, reaching it about a quarter-second before the heavy metal bolt struck its target. A violent twist both released the body to float out through the hatch, and turned Gordon to face the stack of shipping crates. The bolt struck with an oddly quiet, terribly final sound, like a small, flat chime. He pulled back the hose release lever just as a line of searing fire split open the first crate.

All hell broke savagely free, at once: sun-bright flare, violent pressure wave, roaring foam, the ear-splitting groan of crashing metal, and a crazed, end-over-end tumble that left him concussed and disoriented.


	10. Chapter 10: Trapped

10

_Vindicator:_

He smashed into something hard. A bulkhead. The hose was gone, his tactile sensor shattered. The water temperature spiked, briefly, almost scalding him, then dropped all at once to near-freezing. The expanding foam was devouring energy as it engulfed explosion, crate and hold. Gordon had only seconds to get out..., but he couldn't see.

Then, his groping left hand encountered the twisted edge of a hatch, and he hauled himself through. In utter darkness and frigid cold, all he could do was feel his way along the unseen passageway, barely hearing the hiss and click of his own rebreather over a furious, thrumming shock wave; its advance communicated through shuddering ocean and bulging metal.

An idea came to him, that his air tank's flasher might provide a bit of illumination. He had to fight through the current to a ladder, battered by debris and rushing water, twisting his arm around backward to reach the switch, but moments later a crimson strobe lit the passage.

Picking what he thought was the right direction, Gordon set off, but his memorized map of the ship failed utterly. The route that _should_ have brought him to the hull breach, instead left him facing a solid, interior bulkhead. From close behind came the shriek of straining metal, and a sudden, massive pressure wave. The foam was still expanding, pushing its way along the passage as though hunting him.

With no time to think, Gordon darted off in a new direction, his path lit up in vivid ruby bursts. He dead-ended, again. This time, at a locked hatch marked _'Engine Room'. _Something was wrong; he'd got turned around, somehow. Red and serrated as a knife blade, panic began to set in.

He shot blindly away, avoiding the foam's questing advance by scant seconds. But, how much more free space did he have? Had it already encircled him? Cutting on the mask-comm, he shouted,

"_Scott!"_

_London:_

A blaringly shrill alarm interrupted John, just as he was about to hit

the 'send' key. He glanced around at Alan, who looked confused, and a little guilty.

"I didn't touch anything, John...! For real!"

Crowding his youngest brother aside, John returned to the main comm screen. Something froze diamond-hard within him as he read the scrolling data. Temperature spike, micro-brief seismic disturbance, electromagnetic burst... In short, the cargo had detonated.

Hitting the comm switch, he called out,

"Thunderbird 2, from Mobile Control: are you receiving?"

Static; long and wavering. Didn't necessarily mean the worst, though. Even a small explosion could throw off enough energy to disrupt communications. He tried again.

"Thunderbird 2, from Mobile Control: Virgil, _are you receiving?"_

This time, amid the static, he caught a few words. Brains, it sounded like, and worried enough to have lost his stutter.

"...can't... with... bird 4... need... Over?"

"Thunderbird 2, from Mobile Control: repeat last message, please."

More static. Thunderbird 2, closer to the blast, must've suffered comm damage, although the fact that he'd heard from them at all probably meant they were all right. Scott and Gordon, on the other hand, remained unaccounted for. Well, no worries about the wrong transmission triggering an explosion now. Hitting his wrist comm, John said,

"5, status check: Thunderbird 4."

Her response was immediate, and silent; written upon the screen, rather than spoken.

"_Thunderbird 4 is currently holding position at 210.5 M due east of danger zone, John Tracy."_

"How many on board?"

"_None."_

Penelope and Alan stood at either side of him, their eyes riveted to the staticky comm. Someone took hold of John's arm, but he had neither the time, nor the inclination to offer comfort. He tried another tack.

"Locate Divers 1 and 2."

"_Diver 2 proceeding at 4.21 knots, heading 90 degrees, 3 minutes, at an average depth from surface of 55 M, John Tracy. Diver 1 moving erratically within sunken vessel."_

"Establish communication with divers."

She flashed across the acoustic spectrum from 30 to 3000 Hz, getting a faint signal in time to receive Gordon's shout. Forming a swift, chilling notion of what had happened, John keyed up an image of the sunken ship, and had 5 superimpose his brother's comm signal.

"_Shit." _Then, over the mask-comm's sole remaining frequency, "Gordon, the wreck has shifted. It's listing 48 degrees to starboard." His younger brother was headed in exactly the wrong direction. "Gordon, can you hear me?"

"Yeah." In the black-red-black, freezing cold, rumbling darkness, there was no more welcome sound than John's calm, business-like voice. Over the mask transceiver he heard,

"Listen carefully, and do exactly as I say: turn around. Then, 2 meters along the passage, bear left through the open hatch. Got it?"

"Right."

He turned, briefly heading back toward the suffocating ooze. There was the hatch.

"I'm through, John."

"Straight ahead 5 ½ meters... stairway should be right in front of you. Go up."

As the bulkheads and deck flexed and shifted around him, Gordon lost track of everything but his brother's instructions.

"Right 3 meters, another hatch on the port bulkhead. Straight through, then up. Hull breach will be directly ahead. _Go._"

A sudden, fearsome pressure wave nearly forced him past the breach. Gordon Tracy was a world-class athlete, among the strongest and fastest swimmers on the planet... and he scraped through the hole bythe width of a "Hail, Mary".

Safe; almost. Something boiled out, snagging his right fin, then engulfing the entire foot. At nearly the same instant, someone seized him from the front.

Braced against the hull, Scott gave an almighty heave. The trapped foot tore free in a sudden cloud of blood. Taking a firmer grip on his brother, he pushed away from the slowly buckling wreck, and swam for all he was worth.


	11. Chapter 11: Negative Energies

11

The beautiful city hadsurvived to greet the sun. Fog melted away like a fading nightmare, revealing the brawny Thames with its elegant bridges, the clock tower and palace, and the many grand cathedrals through which London raised its eyes to Heaven.

John found himself too tired to appreciate the scenery, however. At the moment, sunshine rainbow-splintered off mullioned windows only made him wish for dark glasses.

When he'd overseen the return of "Divers 1 and 2" to Thunderbird 4,then arranged a swift electronic patch-up of Thunderbird 2's comm system, he called up his computer. In a weary voice, he said,

"5, form holographic image and proceed with communications. Alert me if anything serious comes up..., and let Brains know he has a few bugs to work out with that goddam foam of his."

As always, she was prompt:

"Hologram initiated, John Tracy. Communication established with Island Base and Thunderbirds 2 and 4. Engineer requests quantification of denaturing agent's effectiveness."

The foam's practicality and usefulness?

"Seventh level of '_hell, no_,' " he replied, watching as an image of himself appeared on the comm screen; perfectly pressed and razor creased, calm and unruffled.

John ran a hand through his silver-blond hair, smiling a little at the contrast between Thunderbird 5's image and the genuine, somewhat rumpled and bleary, article. He got to his feet, and received a sudden soft kiss upon the cheek from Penelope.

"Thank you," she whispered, her breath tickling warm against his skin, "for saving my city."

In the rising light of dawn, with her golden hair lit along each strand by the sun, and her lips slightly parted, she looked much as she had when he'd last gotten up to leave her; tender, careless, tipsy with spent passion. Of all the things he might have said,

"You're welcome," was all that emerged. Her hand was very close to his on the control panel, as she added,

"I find myself deeply regretting the things I said to you, last night, but I trust that you are gentleman enough to put them from your thoughts."

He nodded, once, then made as if to turn away and begin shutting down Mobile Control.

"I am about to make a tremendous fool of myself," Penny informed him levelly , moving her hand to cover his. She came of a long line of Saxon noblewomen, ladies fully capable of defending castle and keep while their lords rode to battle, and she'd never lost a major skirmish. John didn't look at her, but he didn't move his hand, either, saying,

"I'm a waste of time, Penny. You deserve better."

"I've no idea what I deserve, John," Her voice, hushed enough to be private, was husky and musical. "...But I _do_ know what I want."

This time, he met Penelope's gaze. Sixteen years before, all the light and warmth in the universe had been shut in a box, then lowered into the ground. With her, in the box, were love and play, silly songs and little kisses, a blue teddy bear that represented the missing baby... and all of John that ever really mattered.

His hand curved slightly, giving Penny's a brief squeeze. He had no idea why anyone would want what was left, but...

Head lifted, shimmering hair stirred by the breeze off the ocean, she said,

"I shall most likely repair to the island next week, for a bit of sun. Shall I expect you?"

Penelope didn't have the key to the box; no one did. But, her nearness was welcome, anyway.

"If I can."

_Thunderbird 4:_

A pair of swift, noisy pumps swung into action, draining the lower airlock in less than a minute. Gordon ripped his mask away as soon as the water dropped below chin level, gulping air in great, sucking gasps. Even a rebreather had its limits, and he'd pushed his about as far as it would safely go. Scott was better off, not having used as much air. His back still hurt, but it was pure heaven to breathe free, again.

As soon as he could, Gordon hobbled over to the ladder, and more or less hop-dragged himself high enough to dog open the hatch. Then it was up and through, leaving crimson splotches on the rungs with every other step. Once in the cockpit he turned to give Scott a hand up.

They got in, wobbly and wounded, then collapsed a moment on the black rubber deck. Staring at the overhead, Scott gave his brother's shoulder an exhausted pat, saying,

"When we... get back..., I want a 300-word essay... _'Ten things... I'll never do again... on a salvage... dive.'_"

Gordon, who normally wrote only when forced, looked over.

"You're kiddin'!"

"Nope. Keep whining..., and I'll make it five hundred. Come on..., let's see about that foot."

Raiding a bulkhead locker, they fetched out the first aid kit and a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol. Scott downed a few tablets, then had Gordon take a seat in the pilot's chair, and set to work.

The right heel and instep were deeply lacerated, bleeding so heavily that it was difficult to see much. Scott sprayed the wounds with antiseptic, then sealed them temporarily with Brains' newest artificial skin. Gordon, he noted, looked pale and tired, his pupils rather dilated. Brains had called the denaturing foam "mildly neurotoxic". Question was, how mild?

"You okay to drive?" He asked bluntly, putting away the first aid kit and fishing a couple of water bottles out of 4's small refrigerator.

"I'll do," his younger brother responded with a wan smile. "At least to th' rendezvous site."

Another shoulder pat.

"Good man. Let's get this Bird moving, then, and go home."

_Tracy Island:_

TinTin left the office, once she was certain that the boys were headed back. She was cross and out-of-sorts, worried that nothing would ever change; that Gordon, Alan and the others would go right on taking foolish risks... without her.

The lovely girl didn't want to go back to Paris, or return to her hated finishing school, either. She wanted to fly a Thunderbird, work beside her best friends to save lives. Why wouldn't anyone let her?

TinTin was halfway down the hall, unconsciously maintaining the upright, gliding carriage forced on her by _L'ecole Belle Monde_, when she rounded a corner and nearly collided with her father. She dipped her head at once in a graceful, swan-like bow, as much to hide a faint blush as to show respect.

Though Kyrano was her honored parent, he was also a servant in the same house where _she_ was considered something between an adopted daughter, and a welcome guest. He always seemed to be pushing her away from him... toward the Tracys, toward elegance, and higher status. The situation became awkward, at times.

"Bon soir, Papa," she murmured, softly. And then, because her heart was too full of longing to stay in its place, "I have a question, please?"

The old servant, laden down with a heavy silver platter of tea and sandwiches, shook his head.

"My daughter," he responded, "I am occupied. Later, there will be time for questions, as you are packing once more pour La Belle France."

Any other time, she'd have accepted the mild parental brush-off. Tonight, though, she felt stubborn.

"Papa," TinTin persisted, a mulish gleam in her wide, dark eyes. "Have you asked Mr. Tracy _never_ to allow me on missions, at all?" There, she'd said it.

Kyrano stiffened. He disliked being taken to task by his child, a young girl.

"Daughter, it is a fine thing in a woman to be intelligent, even strong, so long as she keeps these things hidden, and knows her place. An unmarried girl must be graceful, demure, obedient, and respectful. She must show proper gratitude to those above her, while remaining kind to those below... and _never _display temper before others." He paused a moment, lips compressing slightly under the weight of worry, and secrets. Though he hated to bring the matter up...

"That which would tend to make her over-proud, or corrupted, she must put away from herself. Not all abilities are gifts, my daughter. Some are curses."

TinTin's lower lip trembled, but she bowed her head again, and kept silent. Did no one understand?


	12. Chapter 12: Return

_I hadn't intended to post so small a chapter-let, but due to literary chaos of the wildest magnitude,this first bitgot up here. Tikatu, you ARE a life saver!_

12

He climbed back into Thunderbird 1 after John, still glowing from the King's handshake, and the Princess's furtive kiss.

_Alais_... all of a sudden, Alan had a new definition of beauty. With a pert face zephyr-dusted with pale freckles, and rosy-blonde hair caught loosely back at the nape of her slender neck... and those _eyes!_ Grey, he decided, but with secret shadows of purple, hints of sea-blue... She glowed in his thoughts like... like... like the Venus de Milo, but with arms. He was deep in passionate visions of romance and heroism, when the hatch slid shut behind them, and John turned suddenly around.

His half-brother was fast, and anger had made him strong. Alan, recalling too late their earlier quarrel, found himself seized by the shirt front, hoisted onto scrambling tip-toe, and slammed against a bulkhead.

"Listen," John told him, all the scarier for seeming utterly calm. "You want to show off your ignorance, be my guest. But if you ever insult or embarrass her in front of me again, I'll rip your damn head off. Understood?"

"_Uh-huh!" _Alan squeaked. "Never again! _Promise!"_

John let him drop, gasping, to the deck, then nodded once. Indicating the hold with a slight jerk of his head, he said,

"Now..., _get_."

Alan got.

_Tracy Island:_

Home at last,he pelted through an access tunnel from Thunderbird 1's hangar, to Thunderbird 2's. John followed, rather more circumspectly than his youngest brother. The matter between them hadn't been brought up again, nor would it ever be... officially. But from that day forth, Alan's behavior around Lady Penelope was as respectful and courteous as a Boy Scout's. He was already warming up for round two with John, though; plotting like mad.

Thunderbird 2 finally arrived, hurtling through the tropical night, as metallic green and noisy as a rampaging dragon. Virgil lined her up with the runway, then brought her down in a tremendous squeal of tires and hissing hydraulics. Now, she taxied slowly forward along the pavement, brilliant spotlights caressing her muscular hull.

Once inside the hangar, 2's engine roar faded gradually from earthquake to mutter, then died away entirely. Waves of maintenance robots attended her at once, attaching like remoras, or scuttling along her hull after bits of errant debris.

Alan waited at the end of the boarding platform, fairly bouncing with impatience. John stood about five feet away, arms folded upon his chest, seeming no more excited than if he'd been watching a primary school rendition of _Swan Lake._

Truth was, though, these hangar meetings were rather important to them. Before the de-briefing, before explanations and critiques, the boys often gathered to welcome one another, joke around and congratulate. Off-hand tradition, sort of.

Virgil, Scott, Brains and Gordon exited Thunderbird 2 when the shutdown procedures were completed, the engineer and pilot helping Gordon to limp his way over the boarding platform. Scott came slowly after them, walking as though each step required major concentration and a detailed flight plan.

Temporarily forgetting his recent altercation, and mischievous schemes, Alan hurried forward. He'd had to stand by, fists clenched impotently at his sides, as Gordon struggled to escape the settling wreck. Princess Alais had come forward to take his hand, listening silently with Alan while John guided the other boy to safety. He'd held it together, somehow, fighting the urge to second-guess John's route, or tell him to hurry... but it hadn't been easy.

They greeted one another with all the usual tenderness and concern.

"Way to go, Man! You were almost _'Gordon, the Awesome Fossil'!"_

"Shut up," his brother growled, cuffing aside the roughly affectionate hug. "I knew what I was doin'!"

"Yeah. Real pro stuff," Alan grinned. "Getting lost, trapped in primordial ooze, nearly drowned... the list goes on and on."

He danced out of Gordon's reach, laughing,

"Next time, Dude, you'd better bring me along!"

"Not bloody likely!" Gordon snapped, bracing his failed lunge against a handy guard rail. "All you'd find time t' do is flex for th' lasses."

"Don't forget 'point and laugh', Bro!"

Still grinning, Alan helped his brother onto the anti-grav stretcher Brains had summoned.

"...And I can't help it if I'm a chick-magnet. The world, my man, is full of beautiful girls, and _every_ one of them...," ( he waved his hands, scanner-  
fashion, up and down his own proudly posed physique) "...craves the hotness."

Gordon never noticed the sedative shot, he was laughing so hard.


	13. Chapter 13: Houston,

_Last chapter, honest (and, sorry about the length)! The WIP thing has been quite interesting for me, and I very much appreciate the kind comments and suggestions of Tikatu, Opal Girl, Darkhelmet, Barb from Utah, I'mpekkable, and Emma._

13

Several days later, Scott had healed up enough to fly Cindy back to San Francisco, and Gordon was up and about, again. The World Navy had agreed to take on the grunt work of moving the now sealed and harmless shipwreck, and the British Royal Family posted an open letter of thanks to International Rescue, for saving London at grave risk to themselves.

TinTin thought long and hard about a great many things. Then, she went forth to seek Gordon, her loyal confidante and friend. She found him out by the lower pool, walking a cramp out of his knotted right calf. Let a few days go by without heavy exercise, and his muscles wanted to decamp on permanent holiday.

It was a beautiful afternoon; the pool deck, furniture and foliage still silvered with recently fallen rain, the gem-bright birds shaking off their feathers and opening their long throats. The air had that lovely, fresh-cleaned feel to it, and the sunlight poured down like a warm, golden liquid that seemed to flow clear through you, making it a glorious day to be young, and strong.

TinTin fell into step beside her friend, whose broad, freckled back and auburn hair dripped rain and pool water.

"Bon Jour, Gordon. Quoi de neuf?" And then, because she refused to give the Parisiennes the satisfaction of speaking their language, "What's new?"

"Damn leg cramp," he growled, pivoting at the end of the pool to stomp back again. "But that's not new... 's bloody eternal."

"Ah." She replied, rather distractedly. "But you will not mind company then, Mon Couer, or a question?"

"Fire away." The pain was easing, the muscle relaxing, finally.

She said,

"Do you think that I'm... demure? Respectful? Obedient?"

Gordon stopped walking to turn and stare at her.

"This is a trick question, is it?"

"_Non!"_ She snapped, balling up her small fist to strike at him. "I am very serious! I want to learn if you find me demure! Stop laughing at me!"

"...'M not laughing!" He protested, raising a forearm to ward off a sudden flurry of punches. "You're a regular shrinkin' violet, Angel. I swear!"

She stomped a sandaled foot and glared, as Gordon cautiously lowered his arm.

"No. I'm not. I am over-loud, and play too much with boys." Or, so her father had told her. "Everyone laughs at me, even you."

Gordon shook his head, feeling suddenly protective.

"No, Angel, I wouldn' laugh. Not, y' know..., _at_ you. How could I? I lo..."

He caught himself, at the very last instant, looked suddenly away. Not like she didn't know already, having spent so much time helping him retrieve and sort out what remained of his memories... But, saying it was another thing, entirely. Saying it, made it so; would force her to make a decision, one neither one of them was ready for.

"Um... listen, I've got t' go," he told her, looking off toward the house. "Still got that damn essay t' finish, for Scott. He'll add another hundred words f'r every day I'm late."

She'd clasped her hands behind her back, lowering her wide, dark eyes to the tiled pool deck. Being, ironically enough, very demure. Now she lifted her gaze again, saying,

"Would you like help? With... the paper?"

"You c'n write?" Gordon's voice had returned to normal, now that the awkward patch had been safely navigated.

"Better, Mon Pauvre, than _you!"_

Gordon looked offended. Shouldering his damp towel, he said,

"Th' paper I wrote for Alan got high marks!"

"That, my poor, ignorant friend, is because his instructors were so pitiably grateful to see punctuation, that they flung grammatical pride to the four winds. For the sake of the English language, _let me help!"_

Together, still arguing, they headed for the mansion.

_In the house:_

Scott, John and Virgil left the kitchen, enjoying cold beer and boastful conversation. Now that the rain had stopped, they thought it would be a fine thing to sit by the pool and talk.

John was on his third bottle, and had been entertaining his brothers with the 'Pig Latin' versions of various world languages. Pig Latin-Mandarin was particularly odd.

As they crossed the family room, the three young men noticed a wrapped package lying on one of their father's ornate, inlaid side tables. It was addressed to John. From Alan. There was a folded card, too.

The brothers looked at one another, then back at the package.

"If it was me," Virgil ventured cautiously, "I'd pick it up with the fire irons, and chuck it through a window."

"Don't do it, John," Added Scott, failing to locate seriousness beneath the pleasant buzz. "You've got too much to live for."

Their tall brother shrugged, and started forward; brave, stupid, drunk, or all three. Raising a hand, Virgil lowered his head and intoned,

"Bless you, my son."

"Go with God," Scott put in, sadly.

John picked up the card, a trifle gingerly, and read it aloud.

"_Sorry for my bad manners the other day. Here's something to keep you busy on the space station."_ Setting the note back down (it didn't explode, or anything), John muttered, "This... does _not _bode well."

Nevertheless, he refused to back down. Picking up the package, John gave it a careful shake. Nothing rattled, growled, burst into flame, or dripped... So, with a fatalistic shrug, he opened it up and peered inside.

His expression didn't change, but his jaw muscles tautened as John lifted out an inflatable doll. Anatomically correct. Very.

And then, from behind the velvet drapes, came a sudden howl of laughter.

"_Gotcha! Ha!"_ Alan leapt forth, pointing a finger at his brothers. Still laughing uproariously, he began backing toward the seemingly empty hall. "You should've seen your faces! Oh, man, I crack myself up!"

Alan was, in fact, far too busy congratulating himself to notice John's suddenly altered expression, or the speed with which he hid the offending doll behind his back. In mid-guffaw, a thin, sinewy-strong hand reached up from behind and seized the boy's left ear.

"_Boy...!" _Grandmother Tracy snapped furiously, "It's time to come to Jesus, 'cause I'm about to cut me a switch, and peel that hide offa you in goddam tatters!"

"_Grandma...!_ _Owwww...! _I was only... OW! Stop, _please! _I was just kidding! _MOM!"_

As she hauled the boy off by the ear, still delivering wrathful cuffs and slaps, Scott cast his eyes heavenward, mouthing,

"Thank You!"

Virgil, wiping tears from his eyes, chuckled,

"It's the little things in life that make it _all _worth while."

John slung the deflated doll over his shoulder, clapped his brothers on the back, and led the way through the french doors to the pool.

Gordon and TinTin were just leaving the area, so the brothers had the place to themselves. Stretching out on rain-washed pool furniture, they fell to joking about what to do with the doll, christened "Betty". Many suggestions were offered, each one dumber than the last, finally culminating in,

"We could give her to dad..."

But nobody was quite _that _drunk, or suicidal. Then Scott flashed a sudden broad grin, saying,

"Well, Virge; for sure you're out of the question. You've got more than you can handle, already!"

Virgil scowled, mussing worriedly at his brown hair.

"Yeah. Very funny. Unless you've got serious advice to offer, shut up. What 'm I supposed to do with _two _females?"

Once again, the suggestions came thick and fast.

"You're sick men, both of you," Virgil informed them loftily, striving for dignity.

Then, Kyrano stepped from the house, and made his way over.

"Mr. Scott, Mr. John, Mr. Virgil," he greeted them, bowing gracefully.

"Afternoon, Kyrano!" Scott, ever the spokesman, responded expansively. "What's up?"

"A call, Sir, for Mr. John. From a Commander McCord."

John seemed to sober up on the instant. Setting his beer and doll down upon the wrought iron patio table, he got to his feet.

"Thank you, Kyrano. I'll take it in the den." And then, with a brief nod to his brothers, "Later."

A scant three minutes thereafter, John was seated alone in the mansion's cozy, book-lined den. Switching on the telecomm, he folded his arms across his slender chest, leaned back in his favorite leather chair, and said,

"Hello."

Pete McCord's image flashed up on the screen. He was a sandy red-head, with a gap-toothed, Alfred E. Neuman _'What, me worry?'_ grin. Though he scarcely looked the part, he was a US Navy Commander, and NASA astronaut.

"Tracy, you conflicted bastard! How ya doin?"

John smiled slightly. Pete was... Pete. It was impossible to be angry with such a cyclonically friendly force of nature.

"Same as ever, Pete. What's going on?"

"Not much, buddy... not much... Just looking through my little black book, here, trying to find an orbiter pilot for a little mission I'm heading up. What d'ya say?" He shifted the wad of gum in his mouth, grin widening mischievously, "...You up for a road trip?"

John shrugged, more interested than he cared to let on. He'd piloted several missions to the moon station, with McCord as mission commander. NASA, in this age of tight-fisted world governance and fiercely competing space agencies, was a leaner, scrappier organization than it had been in Jeff's day.

"Where to?" He inquired. After all, he'd quite a few months before the space station was ready. Pete's reply came as a total shock.

"Big Red. _Mars, _baby! Ares III, and this one ain't no crappy fly-by, cloud-seeding freight-haul! This one's gonna be a landing mission; goin' in and setting up for a future colony. So...? What d'ya say? You on board?"

John blinked. Finally said, outwardly level and cool,

"Sure. I'm in."

Pete laughed, and shook his red head.

"Geez, Tracy! Don't go all emotional on me, or nuthin'. I don't think I could stand to see you cry."

"I'll... try to contain myself."

Still grinning, Pete gave him a last, jaunty salute.

"Good to go, then. Pack your hankies, pardner. We'll see you at the Cape."

_Mars...!_


End file.
